


Set 'Em Up

by dontpickupthephone (ablondeweasley)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Set it Up, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Gay Keith (Voltron), Haggar as Kiki (i know they're the same person but i needed names), Half-Japanese Keith, Honerva as Kirsten, Hunk & Lance are Roomates, Hunk as Duncan (it's a reach though), Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Siblings, Keith as Charlie(ish), Lance as Harper, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nyma as Suze, Pidge as Creepy Tim lmaoooo, Romantic Comedy, Shiro & Allura are Police Detectives, Shiro and Allura as Harper's friends who are getting married, Slav as the angry resturant dude, Zarkon as Rich, alternate universe - office setting, i threw in a whole bunch of other random characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ablondeweasley/pseuds/dontpickupthephone
Summary: Lance and Keith, two overworked and underpaid assistants, come up with a plan to get their bosses off their backs by setting them up with each other.





	Set 'Em Up

**Lance**

Lance McClain stands by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the office building, watching the flood of New York pencil pushers scurry home free. From where he is, all the way up on the 24th floor, they look like black, white, and red ants, weaving through the streets. The moon is full and yellow, hanging over the fire escape, and Lance’s heart aches with how much he should be joining them.

“Be free,” his breath fogs up the glass, “save yourselves!” He barks a quiet laugh, and then makes his way back to his desk, depositing various papers around the office with his right hand and squeezing a stress ball with his left. Honerva’s office is very art deco, with bold, sharp, geometric paintings on white walls, and large, spiky ferns or pieces of clean-lined glass furniture collecting in the corners. All the other desks are empty, but Lance, as Honerva’s personal assistant/slave, has to wait until she’s gone home.

“Are you trying to starve me?” Speak of the devil. Honerva’s standing in the doorway to her office, one hand on a cocked hip.

“No,” Lance quickly stands, his hands waiting by the phone he _knows_ he’s going to be picking up in the next ten seconds.

“My bones are _eating themselves_ to stay alive,” Honerva claims with a dramatic eye roll, “Order me that thing that I like from that place with the gay waiter, the closeted one.” To anyone else, this demand would make absolutely no sense, but Lance has worked for Honerva for three years and knows everything about her. “That thing she likes” is the truffle mac and cheese, from some weird hipster place called the Castle Ship. And the “closeted gay waiter”... ever since Honerva found out Lance is bi, when she claimed she had an incredible gaydar and knew it all along, she’s constantly attempting to demonstrate that gaydar. It’s gotten incredibly annoying, but then again, so has everything else she does…

“So we _are_ doing the second dinner,” Lance grins, and then catches the Fitbit she’s flung in his direction.

“And make sure that this is at 10,000 steps before Sendak gets here tomorrow. I _do not_ want him to think that I haven't been working out between sessions.” She turns and struts back into her glass-walled office.

“Got it!” Lance sticks his tongue out at her back and picks up the phone.

***

Five minutes later, Lance is running laps around the office, panting into the phone. “The _truffle_ mac and cheese, a kale salad, and a…” Lance checks the Fitbit. Fuck, he was nowhere near 10,000 steps. “A hamburger,” he finishes. He runs around Matt’s desk for the fifteenth time, and Dios, his silk shirt is most definitely ruined by now-- “Forty-five minutes! No, no, is there any way it could be five minutes? No?” He stops in his tracks, giving up. This delivery guy is such an asshole. “That’s fine. I’ll be here for the next forty-five minutes. I’ll be here forever.”

***

**Keith**  


Keith Kogane is pacing on the corner of Main and Sixth, and the bouncer outside the District Club is eyeing him. Is it a racist kind of look? An I-might-find-you-attractive kind of look? (Keith guesses the guy isn’t too bad looking, with his form-fitting suit and the way his skin shines under the floodlights.)

“ _What_ are you doing?” The bouncer asks gruffly, and Keith realizes it’s probably just a bouncer kind of look.

“I’m, uh, waiting for my boss.” Keith watches the dark wooden door behind the bouncer, hoping it will open. “He’s Zarkon Galra, the guy who invented Shark Tank? You’ve probably heard of him.” The look Keith’s getting now is one he can definitely read. It’s the I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of look. “I’m going to call my brother,” Keith informs the bouncer, fuck knows why.  


Of course, Shiro’s also either working late, or he and Allura are out doing something. Maybe both he and Allura are out on patrol. Both Shiro and Allura are NYPD detectives, and their whole romance and relationship is like something out of a movie. It’s incredibly sickening.

“Hey Shiro,” Keith has decided to leave a message, “Sorry I missed your earlier call, I was… well you know, work, and-” Zakon’s finally coming out of the club, also on his phone. Keith hurriedly ends the call, putting his phone back into his bag.

“How’d it go?” Keith asks Zarkon, taking his briefcase.

“Heh,” Zarkon gives a brief, dark laugh. “I’ll invest in that company when they figure out,” he’s pulling a flask out of his coat now. Fucking great. “When they figure out how to dip their dicks in ink and write the Japanese symbol for horseshit.” Zarkon straightens and brings the flask to his mouth. “Do the thing.”

“The thing” is a stupid exercise Keith learned how to do in either an anger management class or a therapy session, back when he and Shiro were in the foster system. You’re supposed to think of things you like to calm down or whatever, and so Keith will describe whatever pleasant thing is on his mind right then to distract Zarkon.

“Think of… seared cod. Some melt in your mouth cod. Think of carrots, and mashed potatoes and crispy onion rings,” Usually it’s food. “Think of some, uh, kale salad, with bitter dressing and…” Keith trails off as he holds open the Tesla door for Zarkon. “Okay. I will see you tomorrow.”

Zarkon cocks his head at Keith, flask most likely half empty, and Keith is _fucked_. “What’re you talking about.” None of Zarkon’s questions are questions. Everything is a statement or demand, “You’re coming back with me to the office.”

“Oh,” Keith lets his eyes close for a second, before taking a deep breath and meeting Zarkon’s eyes again. “Should I order you some dinner?”

“Of course not, man, I just had my juice. What’s the matter with you.”

“Yes, yes, just sometimes you… never mind.”

Zarkon gets into the car, “Shut my damn door.”

***

**Lance**  


“Here you go, Honerva,” Lance places the Fitbit on her desk beside a blue glass paperweight and inhales sharply. He adjusts the thick binder he’s clutching to his chest, wrapping slippery fingers around the edge. His ruined silk shirt is sticking to him in all kinds of uncomfortable places, as well as his Ralph Lauren chinos, and, holy fuck, his loafers are _killing_ his feet.

“So,” Lance pants, “Tomorrow we’re going to post the Romelle article in the morning and the Kova interview in the afternoon.”

“Hold the Kova interview; Matt still writes like he’s still working for the Post.” Honerva fingers the paperweight, a pencil behind her ear. “The lineup is about the story behind the score. We need… fresh eyes for a rewrite.” Honerva seems to look Lance up and down, and he surreptitiously touches his chest, right over his heart.

Is this finally his chance? _Will he finally get to write?_

Honerva opens her mouth to speak again, and Lance beams, only: “Did you return my blue jacket?”

“Of course!” Lance tries not to let his face fall as his hope shatters, much like the way a certain favored paperweight could on the office floor, “And after two hours of waiting in line at their warehouse and an argument with a saleswoman that ended with us both in tears, I got you a full refund!”

Honerva gives him a disgusted look, probably because human emotions are beneath her, “Well, I need it back.”

She’s got to be shitting Lance. Maybe this is the final straw, the one that ends up with him in jail for manslaughter. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, painfully, “Well, that’s it for the agenda, except for a few invitations. You owe RSVP’s to Plaxum’s baby shower, Acxa’s baby shower, and you just need to confirm for Ezor’s wedding, as you would be bunking with Florona since you’re both going alone…” Lance trails off, knowing he’s hit a nerve. As anger flashes in Honerva’s eyes, he thinks back to Nyma, who might be waiting for him at home.

No, she wouldn’t be; hot model girlfriends have a tendency towards partying all night at elite clubs. The dinner Lance painstakingly made her is probably still in the fridge, uneaten.

“No, I’m not paying $1,000 to bunk with some sad, single girl like it’s sleepaway camp. And I can’t be bothered to attend every friend of a friend’s son’s third birthday party. Decline all the invitations, but send each one a $200 gift.” Lance jots that down, nodding. “And there should be three times this many story ideas by now, honestly!” Honerva calls after him.

Lance freezes.

“I… might have a story idea,” he tries not to let that shattered hope rise up again. He turns around, and Honerva’s gaze is unbearably sharp. With that thick, winged eyeliner, and her platinum blonde hair pulled back into an Ariana Grande ponytail, she’s quite the imposing sight.

“It’s not put together yet, I haven’t really… cracked it.” Lance hedges, looking down at his notes.

“Oh, so you’re telling me it’s bad before I even hear it. Perfect.” Honerva says dismissively.

“No! It’s-It’s about the National Senior Games Association. You know, it’s hosted in New Mexico this year, and it’s all about promoting healthy lifestyles for adults through education, fitness and sports, and about letting these people pursue passions that they couldn’t when they were younger. They love sports, but maybe they couldn’t when they were… I mean maybe they had, like, a really intense office job that took up all the time their time, or… ”

Honerva’s eyes look dead.

“I mean yes, it seems silly. But they never got a chance too… to live their dreams, because life got in the way, and now they can.” Lance’s head hurts, and he’s so, so tired. He looks down.  
His phone rings, and he turns away.

“Your dinner,” he chokes. “I’m-get it.”

***

**Keith**  


Keith dutifully follows Zarkon up the stairs and around the corner, looking up at the extravagant chandelier above him as Zarkon goes on and on about something.

Shit, Zarkon’s saying something. _Asking_ him something.

“Oh, uh, yeah, tomorrow. I moved your lunch to The Castle Ship. Haggar wants to go over the divorce papers, so when do you want to do that?”

“Yeah, you can tell Haggar she can light herself on fire.” Zarkon’s scrolling through his phone.

“If she calls, or…” Keith nearly trips over a power cord. He only just catches himself on a nearby glass table, and it’s thanks to his hours in the gym and studio that he’s able to grab the spiky fern and magazines occupying that table before they hit the ground.

“What is this.” Zarkon points at the collection of lemons of Keith’s desk.

“Oh, _this_ is your son’s science project. It’s lemon batteries?” Keith mentally kicks himself for letting that come out like a question. He needs to be more like Zarkon… but also not like him at all.

Zarkon doesn’t say anything, only saunters into his office. He’s pulling back his chair when he gives Keith this look like he’s something he found on the bottom of his shoe. “Where’s my dinner.”

 _Holy fuck._ Keith takes a deep breath, tries to be calm, be patient, because “patience yields focus,” like Shiro says.

“Did you _want_ dinner, because you said… no problem.” Keith grits out. “Coming right up.”

Keith barely restrains himself from punching the wall on the way out.

***

**Lance**  


This is officially the _worst_ day ever. Lance might actually quit this time. He might. What kind of idiot forgets to carry cash?

“I order from you guys like six times a week, you know I’m good for it!” Lance is pleading with the delivery guy in front of the office building. The chill wind bites at him, with his damp hair and clothes, and the delivery guy is clad in a neon vest, and his arms are crossed in a way that Lance knows isn’t good.

“I have three credit cards! See?” Lance pulls out his American Express card to emphasize.

“Yeah, I can see that. Too bad.” Rolo, the delivery guy’s name tag reads. His septum piercing shakes as his frown deepens. The food smells so good and Lance is so close.

“What if I told you I could pay you triple tomorrow?” Lance is desperate, waving his wallet all around, and a nickel and three pennies hit the concrete. Rolo watches them roll into a crack.  


“Cash only.” He drawls.

“What if I told you this pretty face was just a mask and I’m actually a 100-year-old gypsy who will curse your family 10, 000 years?” Lance threatens in a higher voice than normal, which he’s not proud of.

“Cash. Only.”

Lance is going to scream.

***

**Keith**

Maybe this day isn’t so bad after all, Keith thinks, as he pushes his way through the revolving glass door to find a delivery guy waiting outside. He’s arguing with a man, whom Keith can tell even from the back probably works in the building. Keith runs up to them.

“Hi,” he interrupts, “Who’s food is this?”

“ _Mine_ ,” Insists the sweaty office worker, but Keith ignores him, focusing on the delivery guy.

“If you’ve got $32.35 in cash, it’s all yours.” The delivery guy shrugs. Thank you, God! Keith isn’t much of a believer, but! Wow!

“I have cash!” Keith digs in his pockets triumphantly, pulls out his wallet, “I have so much cash!”

“No, no, hey, hey, hey!” The office worker interjects frantically, and Keith finally looks up. Maybe this guy doesn't work in the building after all, because, sure, the building’s large, but he knows a lot of the other workers and sees even more around, and he knows with one glance: he would have remembered seeing someone who looks like this.

Keith doesn’t really have a type. But if he did…

“This is my boss’ food!” The guy’s saying, “And if I’m not back in two minutes with this food, I will be fired.” He takes a deep breath, schooling his features into… innocence? “Can I borrow some money?” He asks nonchalantly, and honestly, in any other situation, Keith would say yes.

But it’s not any other situation. In fact, they’re in the same _desperate_ situation.

“No,” Keith’s more than a little sorry, “Because this is now _my_ boss’ food. And if _I’m_ not upstairs in two minutes, _I’m_ going to be fired.”  
“No, you won’t! Look at you,” The guy waves his hands in Keith’s direction, “You’ll just swoop in with your dashing looks and white privilege and you’ll keep getting promoted for no reason! _I need that food_!”

Keith just raises an eyebrow, “I’m half Japanese.” And he hands the delivery guy his cash.

“Is this happening to me? I will _not_ forget this!” The guy exclaims to the swollen moon. A little too dramatic for Keith, come to think of it. He feels less guilty as he walks away, but--

“Wait! Sir, sir! There are two dinners! One for me and one for her,” The guy’s running after him. Keith turns around. “I can take one to my boss, and you take one to yours! Please!”

Keith has never been this weak before. Then again, he’s never come across a guy this pretty, and this… pitiful before. He rolls his eyes, “Fine. What are the meals?”

“There’s a hamburger and a truffle mac and cheese and a kale salad.”

“I’m taking the hamburger,” Keith says, because chances are Zarkon's going to be a little bitch and not want this at all, and Keith’s lactose intolerant.

The guy smiles, and _wow_. “Thank you so, so much!”

“Yeah, well, pay me back tomorrow. I’m Zarkon Galra’s assistant, on the 16th floor.”

The guy nods and then snags a pickle from one of the boxes.

“Hey!” Keith exclaims.

“The pickle is _my_ dinner!” The guy shrugs and waggles his eyebrows.

“There’s no way I’m not giving Zarkon a hamburger without a pickle. No. Way.” Keith deadpans.

They’re at the revolving door now, and the guy hands over the pickle sadly. “Fine.”

“You're welcome,” Keith says, as he pushes through. And takes a bite of the pickle.

The guy’s eyes widen comically, “You’re a monster!”

Keith just laughs.


End file.
